I'm still interviewing editors, so bear with me.
No matter what you say or think, it's tricky business trying to figure out if your lady friend had an orgasm.
I know some of you fuckos are like, "Bro, my girl comes every time she even sees my dong cuz I crush ass, bro." Wrong.
I know that some of you ladies are thinking, "If you have to ask, then I didn't. Bro," which is why I never ask. (I just realized that that particular line of thought could take me way off track. Maybe I'll come back to it later.)
Like I said, the whole thing is tricky.
1. There is no way to tell if a girl came. Period. Stop reading now. They will lie to protect your feelings. Some of them are good at faking it. She might even have a bag of synthetic pussy juice in her buttcrack which she uses to "squirt" right as you finish. (Don't ask me about the geometry or logistics about this. Bitches by tricky!) There are a million reasons. Maybe she just wants that shit over with because you're pounding away like you're prepping a nice piece of beef for chicken-fried steak. Who the fuck knows? Not you. Ever.
2. Learn to trick yourself. (I'm starting to think I need to change the title of this post, but I probably won't. Click bait is awesome!) You guys ever seen that poster in X-Files that says, "I want to believe"? That's how I feel about it. Since you'll never know anyway, just go ahead and believe. Ignore that bag of synthetic pussy juice and believe!
3. If you're with a younger lady, she may tell you that she's not sure if she came or not. She might be lying or she might be telling the truth. But, I can tell you this for sure: If she's not sure, she didn't. But maybe you can trick both of you into thinking she did. Whatever.
4. If her pussy muscles clamp down on your dick in a rhythmic fashion, there's a decent chance she busted a girlie nut. But that is no guarantee. She may have done a shitload of Kegels in preparation to trick you into thinking you made her come. Again, maybe you were pounding away—using your own Kegel muscles not to come too fast—and she decided to end it by clamping down on your dick with her pussy muscles to make you think she came so you can come and y'all can get back to watching The Bachelor.
5. If she shits her pants, there's a good chance she came. Wait. Ok, she's probably not going to shit her pants because, hopefully, she's not wearing any pants while you're fucking. Well, now that I think about it, you could make her come from a good old fashioned church-bus finger bang, but that's pretty rare. So, yeah, if she shits the bed (or beanbag chair or her dad's Barcalounger or whatever), she probably just came. But then again, this is not a sure-fire method to tell if she's actually had an orgasm.
Maybe you were at the bar doing shots before your love-making sesh. Those Jaeger Bombs may have gone straight to her butt. It's happened to me a million times—my butt, not hers, except for that one time in Birmingham, but I do NOT suggest bedding anyone in Alabama, ever. (The Bloody Sex with an Alligator shot is also a no-no if you're planning on smashing later in the evening. Trust me on that.)
Or maybe she's got a sneaky case of the diarrhea. Sneaky like she doesn't quite know she has the diarrhea yet. Maybe she feels it coming on and thinks she can hold off until it's over. And maybe she can't. Next thing you know, she's shit the fancy chaise lounge your MeeMaw left you in her will.
But on the other hand, or I guess the first hand, there's a reasonably decent chance she came if she shits on you or your furniture.
5.1. If she buys you a car, she probably came.
In the end, you just have to do your best. Pay attention. Clip your fingernails. Eat it. Give her a reach-around because everybody loves a good reach-around. Pay attention. Be gentle at first. Read some books about the yoni. Watch an instructional video on YouTube. I learned how to play the "Stairway to Heaven" solo off YouTube, so maybe you can learn to make a chick come.
Ask for coaching and let her be your coach. For example, "Would you enjoy it if I stuck my finger in your butt? How about a nice mid-coitus snack?" Something like that. Be polite. And don't try to fuck her like you're in a porno. Nine out of 10 chicks don't like getting railed in such a manner. (I have the data, so don't challenge me on that. [Of course, there's a time and a place for porno railing, but if you're wondering if she came or not, you're probably not ready.])
Now that you know you won't ever know, get out there and get it on! Because knowing you don't know is half the battle.
Let me know if you want to be a guest blogger. You can write about pretty much anything.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 or IG @trey_influencer and win a free t-shirt!
Author's note: My editor has decided that he can no longer edit my work due to its "ludeness." He's a judgy bastard.
The good news is that smoking (cigarettes) is at an all-time low. The bad news? People are eating ass like crazy and it's causing cancer, among other maladies.
The Pew Research Center has just released a study comparing the dangers of licking buttholes to those of smoking cigarettes. It's not looking good for you, asseaters.
Not only did researchers discover that tossing salads causes cancer, but it has created a new kind of cancer: Assanoma. On your face. Assanoma is no joke. It is fast-growing and takes no prisoners. 100% of people who get assanoma die within the first three days. Chemo slows the growth slightly—most patients die within four days—but there's no guarantee of a cure. Assanoma patients can have the buttface tumors resected (if caught in the first three days), but that requires removing the entire face.
[Update 10/10/18: Spinal invagination surgery shows promise as assanoma treatment, according to CDC and Harvard Medical School.]
Other side effects include but are not limited to the following: major depressive disorder, gingivitis, schizoaffective disorder, diarrhea, constipation, suicidal ideation, delusions of grandeur, teeth staining, teeth grinding, diarrhea, seasonal affective disorder, pancreatitis, monster truck rallies, generalized anxiety disorder, runner's knee, tennis elbow, flatulence, diarrhea, bad breath, dry mouth, wet mouth, dizziness, alcoholism, cystic acne, MAGA hats, insomnia, drowsiness, and diarrhea.
Researchers also found that eating assholes out is quite malodorous. No matter how clean your partner tells you their chocolate starfish is, it is not as clean as you want it to be. (Side note: Some of you make fun of people who don't wash their hands after peeing, and you eat assholes.) The Pew Center found that 99.9999999% of anuses do not smell good. Sad but true.
Not only do recti smell bad, but licking one will make YOU smell bad. Poop particles are not so easily washed off. (Lava helps, but again, no guarantees.) Dr. John Smith, Ph.D., lead researcher writes, "You may be surprised to learn that most asshole eaters do not wash their faces or even brush their teeth after a session."
Driving the point home, he says, "Just imagine…you wake up late after a lovely night of licking your lover's anus and suddenly remember you're meeting your mom for breakfast. You run out of the door without a shower. When you arrive at the Waffle House, your mom kisses you on the cheek, right next to your mouth. She throws up on someone's All-Star SpecialTM and writes you out of the will. Your poor mother. You should be ashamed of yourselves."
Chasing the Brown Dragon
As a mature gentleman of 42 years, I would like to tell you that I've never eaten an asshole. But that would be a lie. I'm going to come clean in hopes that sharing my story will prevent the younger generation from making the same mistake(s) I did.
It was 1993 and I was staring down the first vagina I was ever to munch. It was a lovely spring night. We were in the back of my 1985 Buick Regal Somerset and the light from the Burger King sign was lighting her elegant labia like a ray from heaven. Pearl Jam's "Black" was playing on repeat on my Discman. Enthusiastic but untrained, I went to town. Three or four hours into it, I pulled back to take a look at my work. There, before my eyes was her glistening butthole. Hmm, maybe I should get after that too. And so I did.
Her butthole was like a bag of cotton candy. Well, maybe that's too glowing of a description. It was clean and completely odor free. Magical. Little did I know, it was one of a kind.
Anyway, I finished the front side to the best of my nascent ability and dropped her off. My dad was waiting up for me when I got home. He was sipping a quadruple rum and coke and reading the latest Clive Cussler novel. He looked up and said, "So, eat some ass tonight, did ya, son?" Then we walked off to bed. How he knew, I'll never know.
This one perfect butthole set forth a decade of chasing that hygienic butthole high. Ass after ass, I chased that brown dragon, never to find another one like it. And let me tell you, the abject horror of eating dirty assholes out for 10 plus years will take a toll on you. Disappointment after disappointment. Broken relationship after another, all because I was on a hunt for the one that got away.
By the end of 2006, I was a broken man, diagnosed with bipolar 2, GAD, MDD, and alcoholism. In 2008 I drank myself into a coma and my pancreas exploded. And why? Because of that one perfect butthole. Looking back, I should be grateful though; I escaped with my life and my face.
By the grace of God and my sponsor, I have not eaten ass in 2,937 days, as of this posting.
The point is, eating ass is as bad for you as smoking (cigarettes) and instances of butthole licking are on the rise. Save the kids and share this article. It just might save the life of a youngster you love.
My editor is still having issues with sticking stuff in his butt. Please forgive the typos and shit.
The marketing firm I work for recently had the brilliant idea to hire a robot. I fucking hate robots. And I also think robots are pretty awesome. I hate them because they will probably soon take my job and/or kill me. I think they are awesome because, well, robots are just fucking awesome.
And no, I don't mean sex robots, though I suppose those would be pretty great if they could trick me into thinking that they weren't robots, and I don't see how that's possible. Not yet anyway, and I don't give enough of a fuck about sex robots to really do the research. I'm also too broke to pay for a sex robot. That shit sounds expensive.
So, yeah, my company hired this fucking robot a couple months ago—the I-5,000, though he likes to be called I5K (eye-5K). I5K isn't one of those I, Robot style robots that looks kind of human; he's a robot-looking robot. I5K is also the shit-talkingest motherfucking robot ever. I didn't even know robots were programmed to talk shit, but he is. He's not good at it, but that doesn't stop him.
After he'd been there a couple of days, he started doing it. For some reason, he only talked shit to me and this black dude, Lamar.
[In pompous robot voice] "Trey, how are you this morning? I don't care. Ha. Ha. Ha."
He never waits before delivering his punchline. "Eat a dick, I5K. Not in the mood for your shit this morning."
"Trey, did your wife give you a negative response when you asked for the sexual intercourse coitus? Ha. Ha. Ha."
"Yeah, but you're mom gave me the positive on the sexual intercourse coitus."
I heard a clunk and a whirr. "Do not speak of I5K's maker-mother in that manner." His eyes flashed red.
I actually had shit to do, so I didn't fuck with him anymore.
The good thing(?) about robots is that they're always learning. For example, a couple weeks ago, I was editing yet another article about MBAs: "Five High-Paying Jobs You Can Get With an MBA." All of a sudden I5K pops his head over the cubicle wall and says: "TREY, YOUR MOM AND I DID FUCKINGS LAST NIGHT. HA. HA. HA."
"Why are you yelling at me, dude?"
"I just wanted to get your attention. You looked like you were concentrating. Did you hear me? I said, your mom and I did fuckings last night."
He always fucks up syntax and usage. And he's Aspergery as fuck. (Sorry, that's offensive to people with Asperger's. He's roboty as fuck.)
"That's great, I5K. I'm glad you and my mom did fuckings last night."
My boss then popped her head over the wall. "You two, stop it!"
"I apologize sincerely to you Miss Stonebridge," he said.
"He started it, Nicole," I said.
She grunted and went back to work.
Though I usually don't mind "mom" jokes, it's a bit more disturbing coming from a naked robot with a huge dong. He says it's not a dong, but it sure as fuck looks like a dong. It's a segmented metal tube—think Go Go Gadget Dong—coming from his pelvis with a pyramid-shaped head. On the tip, there's a USB plug. He plugs his dick into his Dell laptop and works that way, which doesn't make any sense to me. Why the fuck does a robot with that amount of computing power need a regular ol' Dell laptop? And he's always doing complicated stuff in Excel. It doesn't seem like he'd need that either. But whatever. I'm just an editor.
When he's not looking at a pivot table, he's going to get coffee. He drinks at least 20 cups a day.
"I5K, why do you drink coffee?"
"It is to make my human coworkers feel more comfortable around me," he said.
"It's working," I said sarcastically.
I5K is an analyst. I pronounce it "ANALyst," which he doesn't like. He doesn't know why he doesn't like it, but he doesn't.
The strange thing is—besides working next to a robot with a huge robot dong who talks about fucking my mom—is that I kind of like him. He's a good kid. (What the fuck is wrong with me? He's not a kid, he's a fucking robot.) Last week, he bought me a coffee mug that says, "I'm silently correcting your grammar." He said he ordered it on Amazon.
He always makes ridiculous pop culture references. He sends me YouTube clips of "The Office" and shit like that. Sometimes he sends me indie shit music on Spotify.
That night on the way home, I started to think about his life outside of work. Where the fuck did he go? I know he doesn't stay at the office all the time. He comes in late every day and he leaves the same time I do. I see him get on the train, and then the next morning, he rolls in after nine with a Starbucks cup in clamp-like hand.
I picture him going to his new, midrise apartment in Uptown and watching old TV shows on Netflix. Does he really need the TV? I picture him listening to the 20-somethings downstairs by the pool, having a good time and being dipshits. I imagine him wanting to join but knowing they would probably all leave if he did. He wants to save himself the shame of that, so he just sits and listens, imagining what he life would be like…
Or maybe he just goes back to the robot factory after work.
And another thing: Does my company pay him or did they just buy him? Maybe both. Who the fuck knows? I'm scared to ask.
Yesterday, as I was editing another listicle about work-life balance, I5K popped up and said, "Trey, do you want to go buy a pizza slice and a Coca-Cola with me and eat together?"
"Sure, just one sec." I moved a modifier to its correct place in the sentence and saved.
We got on the elevator with Jenn from HR, and he said, "Trey, your wife made me the best blowjob last night."
Jenn from HR looked shocked. Not mad, just shocked.
I said, "Buddy, you can't say that kind of stuff in front of a lady, and definitely not a lady you work with who happens to work in HR."
"I apologize, Jenn from HR. My programming does not always account for proper timing of jokes."
"It's ok," Jenn from HR said. What the fuck was she going to do anyway?
We each bought a slice from Excellent Choice Pizza and sat down at a table near the Smoothie King. I realized that I had not seen I5K eat anything and I was dying to know what he was going to do. Before I had a chance to sprinkle the parm on my slice, he put half of his in his mouth and started chewing—robotically. "Nom. Nom. Nom," he said. His mouth was open. There was no tongue that I could see and no saliva. Just metal teeth going up and down. After 20 seconds or so, a flat piece of metal came down from the roof of his mouth and scraped the pizza into his throat.
"Buddy, can you taste that?"
"Do you enjoy it?"
"I neither like nor dislike eating Excellent Choice Pizza."
"Do you need to eat to stay alive?" I asked.
"No. I do it to make humans feel more comfortable."
"I don't know if that's working."
"I don't know either. I should run an ANALysis." Now he was saying it that way, too. Learning.
"By the way, I've been meaning to ask you something, but I don't want to offend you."
"Do they pay you to work here, or did they buy you?"
"They paid my maker-mom to get me and now they pay me. I make seventy-eight thousand three hundred and forty-nine dollars each year."
"What is wrong, Trey?"
"Never mind," I said. "What do you do with your money?"
"I use it to appear human."
"What does that mean?"
"I have an apartment. I buy food. I pay for Netflix. I order things from Amazon."
"I don't know."
He counted my chews and the number of bites it took me to finish my slice. At the same time, he counted how many sips it took to finish my drink. I wondered if I was the only human he was trying to learn from. If so, he was fucked.
This afternoon, I walked out for my last smoke break of the day. I5K was sitting on a bench, and he appeared to be crying. Something clear was dripping down his face from his eye cameras.
"You alright, man?"
"No. Boo. Hoo. Hoo."
It sounded ridiculous, but it was fucking heartbreaking.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I am pointless. This isn't fun anymore. Sniff. Sniff."
I was about to start crying, too. "I understand."
Gears whirred and he turned to look at me. "Do you really understand, Trey?"
"Yes, I do."
"Can I borrow a cigarette from you?"
"Yes, you can."
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 and Instagram at trey_influencer.
First of all, I'm aware that there is a bit of a misplaced modifier in that title—it just sounds better than "5 Things They Didn't Teach You in School About Titty-Fuckin." So to make sure I'm clear, I want you to know that you shouldn't be titty-fuckin in school. Of course, there are exceptions, but in general, do not fuck anyone's titties at school.
For the last couple months, I've been pretty blocked creatively. In an effort to combat my failing imagination, I used a blog title generator on the internet, and this is what came out. There were some other good ones, but I feel like titty-fuckin just doesn't get the attention it needs these days.
I did some research and found out that titty-fuckin hit its peak of popularity in 1988 with a whopping 94 percent of the population engaged in some type of titty-fuckin activity each month. Unfortunately, it has been on a slow decline ever since. In 2016—the most recent data provided by to the Bureau of Labor Statistics—only 6 percent of Americans titty-fucked each month.
To tell you the truth, I don't think I've really thought about fuckin titties since the late 90s, but that shit needs to come back, and I've taken it upon myself to bring titty-fuckin back to the mainstream.
Here are my top five tips about titty-fuckin—some of them may surprise you!
The More You Know
1. Some ladies (or dudes) don't actually like having their titties fucked. Shocking, I know. I didn't really want to start out with this one, but it needs to be said. I don't want you to read two or three and then go out and try to fuck some titties without knowing that some chicks don't always want their titties fucked. But don't lose heart! If you're an informed and generous titty-fucker, you might just change her mind.
Feel her out about her titties. Some girls don't even like their titties, let alone want to have them fucked. If you find a girl who hates her titties, you should probably just give up. She is going to be a pain in the ass about pretty much everything from titty-fuckin to laundry detergent. Go out and find you a girl who loves her titties.
2. Once you've found a girl (or dude) who likes her titties and is not completely against having them fucked, it's time to get it on! Right? Wrong! Don't just pull em out and start grinding your dick between them. You've got to romance the titties first. In this sense, it's just like the pussy: it (they) needs to be warmed up first. Maybe get you some massage oils. Be gentle until she tells you to go harder. Don't go all "tune in Tokyo" on that shit. They don't like that. Once the titties are good and warmed up, then and only then, start titty-fuckin!
3. While you're titty-fuckin your titty-lovin lady, don't forget to give her the ol' behind-the-back reach-around. What's the ol' behind-the-back reach-around, you ask? It's just like it sounds: reach around behind you and jack that clit. (The fact that you had to ask concerns me.)
4. All titties are great for titty-fuckin! Some people will tell you that you don't want to titty-fuck chicks with small titties. Some dudes don't want to titty-fuck chicks with fake titties. Ridiculous! Why the fuck would you not want to rub your dick on titties? Seriously. What the actual fuck is wrong with you people?
5. For the girls who love their titties, but don't want to get their titties fucked, I suggest you offer to let her titty-fuck you! That's right! Let her titty-fuck you! In this way, titty-fuckin is a lot like anal.
Imagine that you really want to get your girl in the pooter, but she's not down. Sad, right? Well, if you want the pooter bad enough, offer to let her get after your butthole first! She might not think that's hot, but she will respect your potential butthole sacrifice. Tell her she can use her finger or a kitchen appliance. You might even offer to buy her a strap-on. (Oof, I just grossed myself out a little bit.) Good news is that she probably doesn't want in your butthole. She'll love that you offered and will then give up the booty! (I wouldn't bet on this strategy, so be ready to have something stuck up your asshole.)
Anyway, titty-fuckin is just like anal. Tell her you want her to fuck your titties. Lay back and let her rub her pussy all over your chest. She'll love that shit. It'll look like a drunk snail ran around up there if she does it right. Side note: if you shave your chest, make sure you get it clean. They don't like rubbing their pussies on chest stubble…or so I've heard.
Bonus tip: Make it fun! Laugh when you bring it up. "Hahaha! Wanna get titty-fucked? Hahaha! LOL. Just kiddin…unless you wanna do it." Or while you're wrestling say something like, "I'm fixin to titty-fuck you! RARR!" If she says something like, "Do it, motherfucker! Fuck these nasty titties," you're in.
Now that you know a little more about titty-fuckin, get to it. And after you and your lady (or dude) friend go at it, send me a note. I can't wait to hear about it.
Follow me on twitter @edgefiction101 or Instagram @trey_influencer.
Editor update: My editor hasn't stuck anything up his butt for a week, so hopefully he will get out of rehab next month.
Ladies love a man who can cook. No fucking secret there. No matter what they say, chicks like to eat. And fuck those "I'll-just-have-salad" bitches anyway. Salad chicks—not vegetarians—probably have stinky vaginas.
Where was I? Oh yeah, cooking. The problem with cooking a great meal is that it takes time, time that you may not have. Maybe you're watching the game or going to happy hour. Maybe you're sitting on your patio smoking cigarettes wondering what the fuck happened to your life, counting the days until you DON'T retire because you can't afford to because your crippling student loan debt doesn't leave you enough money to invest (the ROI on that degree was terrible because you're an editor and not a doctor, lawyer, or baller business dude) and you're probably going to get cancer anyway so fuck it.
You need a way to impress your lady friend without spending a fuck-ton of time in the kitchen. Good news, buddies, the GMan's got you!
Step one: Go to the store.
Step two: Make a mess in your kitchen.
This may be the most important part of impressing your lady friend. A meal surrounded by a mess means you worked hard. (A mess on its own means you're a fucking slob and should probably clean your kitchen. And also, she might equate the cleanliness of your kitchen to the cleanliness of your butthole, so that's something else to consider.)
Cut up the tomatoes and throw 90 percent of that shit in the trash. Leave some seeds, juice, and bits of skin lying around on the counter. Repeat with the onion and garlic. Throw some of your new herbs and spices on the counter and leave the jars out.
Pull out your stand mixer with the pasta attachment. (Borrow this from your mom if you have to. Kitchenaid mixers make all the panties drop. Except your mom. That's gross.) Crack some eggs into the sink leave the shells where your girl can see them. Throw some flour around. Spill a little milk. Make a paste and put some in the mixing bowl.
Step three: Cook the actual food.
Pour your store-bought sauce in a pan and heat it up on low. Follow the instructions on the box of pasta and cook that shit. Mix some of the garlic you threw in the trash with some butter and let soften. Right before you eat, put that on the fancy bread and heat it on a grill pan. The grill marks make everyone horny as fuck.
Step four: Your lady friend shows up for dinner.
Your lady friend walks in and sees your fucked up kitchen and the food on the stove. She assumes you made that sauce from scratch. SPLOOSH! "Wow! I can't believe you went to all this trouble. It smells great. WE ARE LITERALLY GOING TO POUND TOWN AFTER THIS!" (I'm not sure where Pound Town is actually located, but she will most likely say "literally" because people don't seem to know what the fuck that means anymore.)
Then you pull out the salad bag and apologize. "Sorry I didn't have time to make my legendary Caesar dressing. I had some deliverables to deliver to the CEO of Google by EOB today." This adds a bit of reality that will make all the other bullshit believable.
Finally, you plate the food and eat. Wait thirty minutes to an hour after eating before hitting the road to Pound Town. Done. Boom!
Or you could just look up a recipe on the internet and actually cook all of that shit yourself. It will probably take you the same amount of time. Except the pasta. Fuck making pasta from scratch. It's weird.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 and Instagram @edgeman3000.
I'm sitting in my cube thinking that I need more money and that I don't want to eat the lentils my wife made for dinner. (They are delicious, of course, but I'm not in the mood. I want a $40 steak.) I'm wondering where the fuck my promising writing career went—seemed promising in grad school anyway. I don't want to eat the turkey sandwich I brought for lunch either. I feel like I have to poop, but I probably won't be able to because of the depression meds I'm on. My blood sugar is too high even though I didn't eat any crazy shit. And mostly, I'm thinking that I'm underpaid for the fancy marketing editor job I have. Don't they know how important grammar is? Don't they know how important smooth, concise prose is?
Don't I know that I'm just editing and writing for a Google algorithm? But yeah, I'm thinking about money, so I start looking for high-paying editor jobs in Dallas fucking Texas.
I find one that pays about five grand more a year than I make now. That sounds ok, though I'll probably feel just as broke as I do now after I've had that job for a month. I click to apply. Of course, this isn't one of those simple fuckers that just takes my LinkedIn info. It does, however, take the shit from my resume and put it in all the wrong boxes. I look around to see if my boss is behind me and start filling in my info.
I went to school. I got a master's degree in English. I went to high school. Why the fuck are they asking me about high school? I fill in my previous employment info, leaving out a shitty job that I sorta got fired from; it wasn't related to writing or editing anyway, and fuck those people in the ass with an AIDS-infested hatchet.
I put in some references, wondering why they even ask. Am I going to put someone down who will say shitty things about me? Fuck no. Basically, that question is asking if you have friends who will lie for you. I do have friends who will lie for me.
So finally, I get to the end where it asks the Equal Opportunity Employment stuff. FUCK! I'm a fucking white guy and I fucking hate these questions. Where's my privilege now? Oh, I know, it must be mixed in with my unpaid student loan bills, or possibly my shitty credit report. Maybe I should drive around awhile and feel the privilege of not getting pulled over. That always makes me feel better.
Gender: Male, female, decline to answer.
I want to write, "Male, I guess," but there's not a box for "I guess." I check the appropriate box and look down disapprovingly at me wiener.
Race: It lists the races.
I'm still not sure what the fuck non-Hispanic white is, but it's most likely not me. I think about choosing the "two or more races" or Native American. While those may be technically true, they are pretty much true for everyone. I sadly—knowing I'm surely not getting the job after my first two answers—click the box for "non-Hispanic white." Ugh.
Protected Veteran: Yes, no, choose not to self-identify.
Well, fuck. This one just makes me feel like shit. My dad and two of my uncles served in Vietnam, and I've always felt guilty about not going to war. My dad and uncles are glad I didn't have to go to war, but the fact that I didn't go to war still makes me feel shitty. I check the "no" box.
Disability: Yes or no.
FUCK again! Goddamnit, I'm fucking sick of this shit.
But wait, they've taken the time to list the disabilities that an applicant might have. I look down the list and I have three of those motherfuckers! Depression, bipolar, and diabetes. Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus for giving me depression and bipolar disorder that led to alcoholism, which then led to pancreatitis, which led to diabetes. This job is mine!
Looking forward to your comments.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101.
Editor update: It looks like it will be months before he gets out of rehab. They went on a field trip—yes, you get field trips in rehab—and he relapsed. They went to Shady Lanes Bowling Alley. (All kinds of shit can go wrong at a fucking bowling alley.) Anyway, he was trying to impress a heroin addict chick by sticking a bowling pin up his ass. She freaked out and called for security, which happened to be a dude named Bubba. Bubba gave him two options: an ass-beating or the cops. Lucky for Dale (that's not his real name), the addict wrangler talked Bubba out of those options and took the whole group back to rehab.
"We are only as sick as our secrets." – AA
As you can imagine, I got a LOT of feedback on the last post about life hacks for dudes. GMan has a shitload of hot chick readers and they wanted to add to my list. Because they are hot chicks—and dudes are still total fucking tards—I decided that seven life hacks were not enough. (I will almost always take suggestions from hot chicks, and you should too. That's a free one, homies.) I may not agree with all of their tips, but, well…they are hot chicks. What the fuck do you want me to do?
But before we get to the suggestions from my ladies, I'll give you the recipe for the Best Burger on the Web: The G-Burger. This is sure to get you laid, so save room for dessert!
First, you need to buy a grill if you don't have one. Any grill will do. Charcoal, gas, firewood, whatever. But do NOT use one of those shitty disposable ones that come in the aluminum pan. Nothing dries out a pussy quicker than a disposable grill. (This is what I've heard anyway. I couldn't dry out a pussy with a hairdryer in the desert, and I sure as fuck wouldn't buy one of those gay-ass disposable grills.)
The cooking part:
1. Blondie69 (smoking hot) says leave the seat down/put the seat down. She's right but probably for the wrong reasons. You should NOT do shit just because some hot chick told you to. (Disregard any earlier advice saying you should [unless you're a total dipshit].) You should put the seat down for yourself. Imagine you have a nice case of middle-of-the-night diarrhea. Your stupid ass didn't put the seat down. Now your nuts are in the water with your diarrhea, and you're sitting on a pissy toilet rim. Fucking gross. So don't be a heathen and put the seat down after you pee.
Side note: James Bond doesn't do shit to get the pussy. He does shit for himself and the chicks give him the pussy because of it. Think about that.
2. "Gallison" (also hot) says you should handle up on your nose hairs. She's fucking right. I get my nose hairs waxed, and it's fucking great! It shouldn't cost more than 15 bucks and it's worth every penny. It doesn't hurt (unless you're a big-ass pussy). You'll breathe better and not have to worry about having a mini Sasquatch hanging out of your nose.
3. Gallison also says to not shave all your pubes off. "Y'all might think we look hot shaved, but y'all don't. You look like an assclown." Right again, Gallison! Get the trunk. Get everything off the balls you can without cutting yourself. Use no less than a #2 on the man triangle. You should be good to go.
4. Elle-Dawg—I think that's Trey's wife—says you should let her kiss you while you have food in your mouth. I'm not sure about this one, but Elle-Dawg is hot, too, so fuck it.
5. "Gigi" says you should learn to appreciate the arts—specifically ballet. That seems a bit specific to me, then then again, ballet chicks are hot. Expert tip: they like bouquets of red roses after they finish a performance. And maybe some cocaine. (I got this info from the movies, not Gigi.) WARNING: Watch out for those psycho-murdery ballerinas like in Black Swan. You don't want to wake up dead with her eating some other hot ballet chick's pussy out next to you on the bed. Trust me.
6. From Leighbirrrrddd: "BE ON TIME for the date! I mean, so I really have to say this? Due to recent experiences, YES. If for some reason you get held up, hit traffic, hit a deer on the way to the date and will be late, let her know. We live in a time where you can't sneeze without it being texted to someone or put on your Instagram story, so for the love of God, text her. And then apologize again once you get there. And if you invite her to "drinks around 7"...she's gonna be there at 7. Because she's classy. You show up at 7:30 and you are officially not worth her make-up."
Seriously dudes, listen to her! Late people are infuriating. And like all my lady readers, she's fucking hot. Imagine you're the one sitting there at the cool place with the Edison lights and appropriated black people food (i.e., chicken and waffles, shrimp and grits). It's about 15 minutes past the time she's supposed to show up. You like this girl. You're excited. Then all of a sudden, you have to pee, but you don't want to because what if she shows up while you're in the bathroom and thinks you didn't show and she leaves. That's fucking terrible! So you sit there about to pee your pants, trying not to drink too much because you're nervous. When she finally does show up, you run to the bathroom and she thinks you had some pre-chicken and waffles diarrhea! What the fuck?! Why the fuck would you possibly do this to someone. Don't be a dick; show up on time. P.S. This goes for you too, ladies.
7. "Bekka" says clip your finger and toenails. Seriously, dudes. I didn't need "Bekka" to tell me this one, but she's right. And she's hot. So pay attention. Long fingernails make you look like a serial killer or a classical guitarist, which are often one and the same. Also, long finger nails are likely to get gross shit under them. Picture yourself as a girl. You're making out with some dude. You pull your drawers down, ready to get fingered good! Yay! But then you see him coming at your sweet poon with some dirty-ass fingernails. Who the fuck knows what's under there? Do you want an unknown brown substance in your pussy? I didn't think so.
I've always known this, of course, but if you don't believe me and Bekka, Google "how to make a chick squirt using your fingers" on the interwebs. Find a reputable site like Yoni.org. Something with Sanskrit in the URL. Don't go to Pussipedia.com. That shit is not a reputable source. A good "How to Make a Chick Squirt" article will explain how finger-banging a chick with long fingernails is basically the same as getting jerked off by Edward Scissorhands. Do you want scissors and knives and shit around your dick? I didn't think so. Trim your shit.
Ok, I think that pretty much sums it up. Hopefully you will take these tips and be less of an embarrassment to your gender. And as always, don't be fucking rapey.
Leave your comments or questions, and the G will be sure to answer you…most likely.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101.
I visited my editor in rehab the other day, and he seems to be doing OK. His counselor told me it would be another three to nine months before he gets out. (I don't think it was legal for him to share that info with me, but people tell me all kinds of shit they shouldn't.) #Praying4ASpeedyRecovery #TyposandShit
When you look past the "ALL dudes are sexist, rapist, racist assholes" shit, you'll notice that the prevailing thought in 21st century America is that dudes are all borderline retarded. At first, I thought this was bullshit. #FakeNews My buddies and I aren't borderline retards most of the time. But listening to women around my office and elsewhere (and men), I've realized that maybe dudes are fucking dipshits.
To help the male population be less dipshitty, I've compiled this listicle of essential life hacks for dudes.
1. Learn to feed yourself. Buying a burger or taco or pizza doesn't count. I was surprised to learn how many guys can't even make a sandwich. (Or worse, they can make a sandwich but pretend to be absolutely helpless so their wives/husbands/girlfriends/boyfriends do it for them. Maybe it's a control thing. Guess what? You're not a pimp. You're a fuckwad. This is not the 50s and you've proven nothing but what a fuckwad you are.)
I'll give you a starter recipe, but after that, you need to start looking shit up for yourself.
Recipe for Grilled Chicken and Green Shit with Fancy Bread.
2. Wash your dick, balls, taint, and asshole. You may be thinking, But GMan, I already wash my dick, balls, taint, and asshole. No. You. Don't. Soap on your hand is not going to get the job done. Use a fucking wash rag! Chicks can smell that shit. They don't like it. (There are probably some nasty bitches who do, but you don't want them.) They will be way more likely to suck your dick/balls/taint/asshole if it's clean down there. Side note: Shave the hairs on the trunk of your cock. That one is more for your own peace of mind.
3. Read a book. (You can tell, this dude lives in Poundtown.)
4. Get off your phone when you're on a date. Actually, get off your phone when you're talking to anyone in person. It's not just rude; it's stupid. If that's what you want to do, go home and stop wasting people's time. If you are on a date and the chick is on her phone the whole time, tell her to go fuck herself and leave.
5. Stop listening to EDM, Bro Country, and anything requiring an explanation of the genre, like Laptop Death Cuddlecore Psychedelia. That shit is stupid. (EDM is ok if you're a gay dude, I suppose.) Google the top 100 albums of all time. Listen to those. Some of those albums suck ass too, but you'll be on the right track.
6. Pay attention. Watch and listen, always. At the very least, this will come in handy in fights later on. For example, your girl—or whatever—starts bitching about some random pee sprinkles on the floor by the toilet. If you were paying attention, you would have noticed and remembered that last November she left a giant shit streak on the toilet bowl. A monster, in fact. If you were paying attention, you could say, "Fuck you, nasty whore! You left a giant shit streak on the bowl on November 16th last year."
7. Stop sending pictures of your dick. You may be thinking, GMan, you're old as fuck and everybody sends dick pics these days. And that one chick that one time asked me to send her a picture of my dick. That's fucking stupid. If everyone stuck flaming dildos in their asses…?
No one really wants to see a picture of your dick. If a chick does ask for a picture of your dick, don't give it to her. Here's why: 1) She probably also thinks that's the thing to do these days, and is thus a dipshit. 2) She's a fucking weirdo. 3) SHE CAN USE YOUR DICK PICS AGAINST YOU IN COURT. Even if she sends you a pic of her titties, still don't do it.
A number of things will go through her mind if you don't:
Bonus Tip: Don't be fucking rapey. Seriously. Otherwise, you're a piece of shit.
If you use these seven essential life hacks for dudes, you'll be way more awesome and less of a dipshit than you are now. You might just get some extra pussy, and at the very least, you might feel just a bit more like a man.
More questions? Post them here, and the GMan will answer!
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101
Author's note: It has come to our attention that many of you think the GMan and Trey are the same guy. We are not. My name is Johnny Lassiter Jr., Aka, The GMan. Trey and I met at a gay-ass writer's conference a few years ago. We both liked drinking, smoking, and titty bars, so we hit it off. (I still like those things, but Trey has calmed down, and in my opinion, become a bit of a pussy.) Because both of us hate the internet, we decided to have one website; that way we could split the work. If you have any more questions about this, ask Trey.
Also, the fucked up formatting, etc. in this is not mine.
Also, turns out my editor is not a lazy bastard. He's been in rehab for sticking things in his butthole. One day at a time, buddy. We love you.
The Marketing Group
Employee Performance Appraisal Form - 2017
Employee Name: Johnny Lassiter Jr.
Manager: November Smithfield
Department: Content Marketing
Overall summary of goal achievement for 2017:
First of all, this is a stupid-ass waste of time, and you should all go fuck yourselves. Except, you November. You're awesome!
There is nowhere to go in this company, so I don't even know why you're asking me all these questions. I have a fucking job to do! You're welcome!
I set my own goals this year, and of course, I fucking slayed them.
Also, I heard that none of us are getting raises this year, which makes this thing extra fucking stupid. Maybe if you did more of that fancy C-suite MBA shit then the company would have more money to pay us more. Anyway, I'll get to salary situation in a bit.
I haven't given this to November yet.
Employee Competency Assessment
Builds Internal and External Customer Relationships
I don't have any customers, and if you knew who I was and what I do, you would fucking know that. Stop asking me all these goddamn questions.
I am a trusted advisor. If someone here wants to know the difference between a conjunctive adverb and a subordinating conjunction, I'm the dude to ask!
I don't have any goddamn customers! Get that shit through your fucking heads. Jesus!
I can't wait to see what November has to say!
Sets Appropriate Priorities
I'm about to assess the fuck out of some "urgency, importance, time, and impact to determine priority of work to be completed." This particular piece of horseshit I'm writing right now is not urgent, important, and has no impact. By the way, "time" in this case is not parallel to those other words in that list. And speaking of time, I don't have time to do dumb shit like this; I could be doing my actual job, which is correcting the grammar and prose of various dipshit freelance writers. Fuck them, too!
I am definitely not spending time on what is important right now.
I'm trying to focus, but it's hard when the English language is being raped all to fuck around me. E.g. Hey, Bill, what's the ask? Excuse me, John, what's the spend on that? I'm about to barf.
I'm urgently trying to get this shit done so I can go back to fixing shitty writing.
Problem Solving Abilities
Innovative thinking doesn't apply to my job. I look shit up on the internet when I don't know. Restrictive and non-restrictive clauses always fuck me up for some reason. And fuck the AP Style Guide.
The root cause to most of the symptoms I deal with is fuck-tarded writers. Actually, no. The root cause is that some fucking asshole told these people they can write. Guess what, fuckos? You can't.
I could make recommendations, but you people don't give a flying fuck.
I'm working to resolve this piece of shit review—without delay!
Exhibits Drive and Initiative
I don't know what "SMART" goals are. I asked the MBA-types fuckers around me and none of them were sure either. Go fuck yourselves.
(And speaking of retarded shit, someone needs to clean the fucking bathroom. I would also suggest some continuing education on poopoo and peepee skills. Expert tip: Shit and piss don't go on the floor. What's the ask? Stop being a fucking heathen.)
I always have a positive attitude, and I'm very enthusiastic about the continued success of this company.
I have high standards of performance. Unfortunately, I'm the only one meeting those motherfuckers.
Go fuck yourselves.
While I would like to say that I have a "continuous improvement mindset," I must be honest and admit that my improvement mindset is continual, not continuous. There's a difference. I'm not thinking about improving my work performance while I'm sleeping or beating off. But yeah, over time I have a continued desire to improve, though it is more incremental than continuous. Look it up.
I suppose that if one could truly "own" an issue or problem, then I do. However, I must add that I don't create issues or problems. Those usually come from assmuncher VP MBAs who have bad ideas about metaphorical language.
I take responsibility for outcomes. But only mine. A lot of these other people are dumbass dicklickers, so there's no goddamn way I'm taking responsibility for that shit. By the way—you don't know me or what I do, so I know you don't know this—my outcomes are always fucking awesome. You're welcome.
I follow through on commitments.
Yeah, I measure my progress, but I never need to make adjustments because I'm fucking awesome.
(And by the way, mind your own fucking business.)
Effective Communications – Oral and Written
You must be fucking kidding me. I listen with the intent to understand, but the way you spray diarrhea on the English language makes it difficult. Certain words were meant to remain verbs. Look that shit up.
"Speaks with truth, candor, and transparency." Yeah, eat a dick.
Ok, I was trying not to judge your shitty writing too much but I've had enough! "communications are delivered…" Not only is that passive voice, it's the opposite of concise. Just say "communicates." Don't nominalize some shit and add an extra verb. The goddamn verb was there in the first place until you turned it into a noun. (This is not the same noun/verb problem noted above. Look up nominalization.)
I am always positive when receiving and giving messages.
Career Development: Discuss 1-2 year career goals
What the actual fuck are you talking about? Are you fucking serious? Next question.
Employee Overall Comments/Feedback:
Finally, the good shit: If don't get a raise after this—and I'm not talking about some 2.5 percent bullshit—I'm going to sue your asses for all the sexual harassment going on at this company.
Suzy in Accounting, for example, is always rubbing her nasty-ass titties on me. She likes to hug me from behind when we're alone in the elevator and rub them on my back. She also stands really close to me when I'm making coffee so my upper arm is stuck between those sag bags. That shit happens like every day. I have a girlfriend, for Christ's sake! I take the commitment to my girlfriend seriously, so if somebody's going to rub their titties on me, she better be smoking hot with some awesome knockers!
But whatever, I'm a dude. The problem is that Suzy from Accounting happened to mention in passing the other day that she could "accidentally" forget to process my paycheck. What the fuck? You can't titty rape some dude's arm and then threaten his measly paycheck.
Somebody better handle that shit!
And then there's Gay Larry in HR. I don't have a problem with Gay Larry in HR because he's gay. I mean, me and my buddies jacked each other's dicks all the time in high school. Who doesn't? Anyway, this isn't some homophobic shit. Jesus, it's a pain in the ass that you've got to write dissertation about you and your buddies jacking each other's dicks before you can say something about gay people without other people getting all pissed off at you and calling you a Nazi.
Ok, back to Gay Larry in HR. He's always looking at my pecker while we're peeing. I don't mean that he takes a glance. I mean he straight up looks at my dick. And he rubs my shoulder while he's doing it. What the fuck? And if you're not getting my point (which you probably aren't) Gay Larry from HR is in charge of HR. Who the fuck am I supposed to talk to about him looking at my dick and giving me shoulder massages while we're peeing? As much as I love November, she gets uncomfortable when I talk about my dick. Again, handle up on that shit.
Finally, let's talk about sweet little Lyndon in Social Media and how the CEO is always trying to finger her. Don't get me wrong; who doesn't want to finger Lyndon in Social Media. She's super hot. Like, I'd let her rub her 23-year-old titties on me all fucking day. Jesus Christ, her titties are awesome. They just seem so fresh, like when you pull that brand new jug of milk out of the cooler at the Kroger and you know it's not going to expire for months. So fresh, so clean. Goddamn! And I'd let her look at my dick every day. Sorry, got off track there for a second.
The CEO tries to finger her at least once a day and everyone knows it. Obviously, Gay Larry in HR fucking sucks at his job. The point is, old rich white dudes cannot just run around grabbing girls by their pussies. That shit is not right. (Not to mention, it gives regular-ass white dudes who don't try to finger rape hot young millennials a bad name.)
I know what you fuckers are thinking: Prove it, GMan. Well, guess what. I have multiple attempted-fingering videos on my phone. Suck it.
Now that I think about it, the CEO better stop trying to finger sweet Lyndon or I'm going public with that shit whether I get a raise or not. #MeToo
I'm going to break this whole thing down for you to make sure you get the message:
Johnny Lassiter Jr.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101
Author's note: My editor is still a lazy fucker, so I apologize for any typos, etc. I missed.
My fans—all 0.000274 million of them—always ask me why I don’t write serious stories anymore. The short answer is that I think I have lost the ability to give my sad characters any kind of redemption. I beat them bloody in front of a small crowd and walk away.
Sometimes I think it has to do with sobriety. Sometimes I think it has to do with mental health.
I wrote a much longer intro, but it's all really bullshit.This is one of those instances where it's better to show than to tell.
The process, if you want to call it that, goes like this:
I’m walking through the food court in the building where I work, going for smokes or a diet Coke or whatever. It's a good day and I remind myself of where I really am. I am an editor in a nice office downtown. I am not a pizza delivery driver with a master’s degree who lives with his mom. Gratitude.
It’s 2 p.m. and relatively quiet. There are rectangular pools two feet high spread throughout the space. There are plants. There’s a New York style pizza place and a convenience store. There’s a burrito place and a place for smoothies. Sometimes you’ll see children being wheeled around on a cart thing. The cart is always pushed by a slightly overweight woman of any race.
As I pass by the salad place, I see a guy sitting alone with his late lunch. On his table, he has a McDonald’s hamburger—the little one that isn’t on the menu anymore. The original one that probably cost a dime when the restaurant had just a handful of locations. He has a can of Dr. Pepper. He has an individual-size bag of Kroger brand potato chips. He has two bite-size Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. That kills me. I could have handled the rest of it, but I saw the peanut butter cups and I start writing this sad shit in my head.
Jimmy woke up that morning at 6:32 a.m. like he did every weekday and Saturdays when he had to work. He doesn’t remember why his alarm is set to 6:32 a.m. and doesn’t ask himself. His name is actually Jimmy and not James, though he’s now forgotten that he hates that. He’s 43 years old. He lives with his father. He’s about 30 pounds overweight and his belly is hard.
He walked to the bathroom to take a piss and looks at himself in the mirror above the toilet. I need to get that gym membership this weekend. When he gets out of the shower, he can hear his father moving around in the kitchen. He goes to his room to finish dressing. It’s the bedroom he grew up in. The posters of girls in bikinis and Lamborghini’s have been taken out, and in their place, there are pictures of grand landscapes he’d cut from magazines, framed poorly in frames he bought at Hobby Lobby. He chooses a pair of Dockers and one of the polos with his company’s logo on the chest. He takes his time because he doesn’t want to talk to his dad this morning. If his dad is up, that means he’s in a good mood and he’ll want to talk.
Jimmy lives with his dad because his dad has MS and spends most of his time in a wheelchair. Jimmy doesn't know why his dad has his good and bad days. Maybe he's bipolar, or maybe some days he has more energy to devote to being happy and normal and as functional as possible. Or maybe it's the depression that comes with MS.
“Jimmy, I'm packing you a lunch,” Jimmy's dad said, looking over his shoulder from where he was preparing a sandwich at the counter. The height of the wheelchair made it an awkward position in which to make a sandwich.
Jimmy felt the love from his father and the lunch he had packed. And he hated him for it. Hated him for his MS. Hated him for still being alive. He hated himself for feeling this way. Jimmy missed his mother.
His father put the sandwich in a brown paper bag with the contents listed on the side in blue ballpoint pen, the script almost illegible.
1 x bologna sandwich
1 x bag potato chips
1 x can Dr. Pepper
2 x Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups
$1.08 in case you want to get a hamburger from McDonald’s
“Thanks, Dad,” Jimmy said, grabbing the bag and putting his other hand on his dad’s shoulder. “I’ll see you after work.”
“Have a good day, Son. I love you.”
Ok, that’s all I can write about Jimmy and his dad right now.
Here’s the one I thought of while I was camping.
I’m walking through Wal-Mart in Burnet, TX, looking for an air mattress. Mine finally gave out and I basically slept on the ground last night. I think about being 41 years old. My hip hurts.
So many products in Wal-Mart. So many shitty products. I think about America. I think about the reasons for Wal-Mart and why it makes me feel this way. Wal-Mart is necessary. Sometimes, it’s the only thing you can afford. Sometimes, it’s the only thing in town. Sometimes, you just need an air mattress. Maybe you’re a little lonely want to be around people. I think about how I could buy anything in the store. I think about how that’s not true.
I walk passed the lingerie section and think, Man, the lingerie section usually makes me kind of horny, but not here. If I’m in Target, I think about hot college girls buying bras and panties. It's some Girls Gone Wild shit in my head. If I’m in Macy’s, I think of slightly older women buying those things. These women are always pretty. They are always sweet and innocent and just a little bit dirty. They have money from their parents or from their first jobs out of college. Either way, they feel fine about where they are. Proud maybe. But not at Wal-Mart.
The girls I imagine buying bras and panties at Wal-Mart aren’t proud of it. Or maybe they are, which makes it even sadder. My pity embarrasses me and I feel guilty. I'm an elitist asshole. Then I think of Sally.
Sally drank half a box of wine the night before, watching TV in the converted barn apartment she rented for 75 bucks a week from her cousin Angie. Her cousin was married to a nice man who had inherited the Ford dealership in town. Her cousin had always been just a little bit better than Sally. Better at sports. Better at school. Better at everything, but just enough so that Sally always thought she would be able to catch up if she worked a little harder. Maybe should could have at some point.
But Sally—her daddy used to call her Sallymander—wasn’t thinking of any of that today. It was her day off from the tractor supply store and she was buying some new clothes; it was time. John had been gone a year and she knew she needed to "get back out there." Everyone told her so. "Get back out there." She didn’t believe it, but she knew she was tired of hurting. She knew that John would want her to be happy. She knew that.
Sally knew she needed a new bra but was really self-conscious about her breasts. They were small but saggy. One boy in high school had called them flapjacks and that word entered her mind any time she had her clothes off, even alone. Well, that's not exactly true; she never felt self-conscious when John was still alive. He made her feel beautiful. Magazine beautiful. But now he was gone and that word was back.
She’d seen an inspirational quote one of her friends posted on Facebook that morning: "I am in charge of how I feel and today I am choosing happiness." Sally was choosing happiness. No more letting the past define her. Today was going to be a good day.
She walked into the Wal-Mart, straight to the lingerie section, her head held high. Her head sagged a bit when she got there, but she remembered that quote. Today I am choosing happiness. Other ladies were in the section, some in pairs and some alone like her. Sally was happy that she didn’t see anyone she knew.
She was looking for something both conservative and sexy. White cotton with a bit of lace? Yes, something like that. After browsing for a moment, she found what she was looking for. She was officially a small B-cup but usually wore an A. An A was tight enough to keep her boobs from flopping over. She hated the feel of skin on skin, the roll underneath. She chose three—one white with lace, one pink with lace, and one that was a see-through black. She wouldn’t buy the black one, but she figured trying it on was a step in the right direction.
It was Saturday and the dressing room was a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere, in the corners and hanging over the stall doors. I wish they would keep this tidier, she thought. She felt a little melancholy creep in, or maybe it was down the block, but either way, it was coming. Sally told it no. Not today. Today I am choosing happiness. She looked under a few doors to find an empty room and finally found one at the end of the row. Discards in there, too. Discards.
I'm not sure why these stories always go this way, but writing them makes me even sadder than thinking of them.
Maybe it's an explanation of why I write about dicks and poop so much.
Of course, I know that I am both Sally and Jimmy.
Anyway, maybe I'll figure out a way for Sally to have a realistic happy ending. Jimmy is probably fucked.